The Spook Who Sleuths

My office was darker than FDR’s fireside chats and twice as smoky. That’s how I like it—keeps the clients on their toes and the spirits at bay. Name’s Roxie Hart, and I’m what you might call a supernatural tomfoolery private dick. Some folks get their knickers in a twist over that last word, but in my line of work, you gotta call a spade a spade and a detective a dick.

I kicked back in my chair, feet up on the desk, pondering life’s great mysteries. Like why dames always fall for the wrong guy, or how Spam manages to be both a wartime delicacy and the bane of future generations’ inboxes. That’s when she walked in—a real looker, the kind that’d make Betty Grable green with envy.

“Are you the... paranormal investigator?” she asked, her voice shakier than a G.I. on his first day in boot camp.

I tipped my fedora back, giving her the once-over. “That’s what it says on the door, doll face. What’s your tale of woe?”

She was a maid, worked up at the Wackerman Estate. Seems the big cheese, Cornelius Wackerman III, had kicked the bucket under some hinky circumstances. As she spilled the beans, I reached into my trench coat, pulling out the Ectoplasmic Resonance Detector—a contraption that looked like it fell off the set of “Metropolis” and got jiggy with a transistor radio.

“Whoa, Nelly!” I said, as the ERD lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. “You’ve got more paranormal residual energy floating around you than a séance during a full moon. I’ll take the case, toots.”

The maid blinked, more confused than a coal miner at a debutante ball. “I... I’m sorry. What did you just say?”

I sighed. Nobody appreciates the classics anymore. “I said I’ll investigate. Now scram, sister. I’ve got work to do.”

As she hightailed it outta here, I gathered my gear and weapon of choice—the Spectral Spook Zapper (patent pending). I slid it into my left inside coat pocket, right next to the lucky rabbit’s foot I’d lifted off a less-than-lucky leprechaun way back in ‘47. I adjusted my tie, straightened my hat, and headed out to face the music.

The Wackerman Estate loomed ahead like the Devil’s own summer cottage. As I approached, a chill ran down my spine colder than a G-man’s stare. This joint was surely more haunted than my high school reputation after that unfortunate incident with the principal’s toupee and a jar of molasses.

The door creaked open before I could knock, revealing a butler so stiff he made Buster Keaton look like a Lindy Hopper (look it up). “You must be the... investigator,” he said, eyeing my trench coat like it might bite him.

“That’s right, Jeeves. I’m here to solve your spectral shenanigans. Now, where’s the grieving widow? I need to pick her brain like it’s the last rationed can of beans.”

He led me to a parlor where a dame sat, draped in black like she was auditioning for a walking shadow puppet show. The widow Wackerman, I presumed. Next to her stood a gardener who fidgeted more than a pickpocket at a cop convention.

“Ma’am,” I said, tipping my hat. “I’m here to get to the bottom of your husband’s untimely departure from this mortal coil.”

The widow’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon. Are you quite alright, Miss...?”

“Hart. Roxie Hart. And I’m as right as rain on a duck’s back, sugar. Now, let’s get down to brass tacks. What’s the skinny on ol’ Cornelius’s last night on earth?”

Before she could answer, a vase floated by, casual as you please. As the vase left the room under its own power, the gardener yelped like he’d just seen Rita Hayworth in the flesh.

I smirked, reaching into my coat. “Well, well, well. Looks like this shindig’s about to get interesting. Hold on to your homburgs and pillbox hats, ladies and gents. Roxie Hart’s on the case, and we’re gonna paint the town red... or maybe ectoplasm green.”

From the parlor, I drifted down the hall into the dead guy’s study, my gumshoes quieter than a Nazi spy at an Allied command post. The room, swankier than a Hollywood big shot’s ego, held more books than the Library of Congress after a shopping spree.

“Alright, let’s see what my little friends have to say about this joint,” I said, muttering and whipping out the Ethereal Essence Evaluator. It looked like a lovechild between a Geiger counter and a waffle iron, but it could sniff out evil spirits faster than a bloodhound on a catnip bender.

The EEE started clicking like a tap-dancing telegram operator. “Well, well, well,” I drawled, “looks like old Corny was into some hinky business. More nefarious vitality here than a ghost’s laundromat.”

As I poked around, the widow Wackerman slunk in, looking like she’d just lost a staring contest with Medusa. “Have you... found anything, Miss Hart?”

I targeted her with a look that could strip paint. “Listen, sugar, I’m gonna level with you. Your hubby was dabbling in some dark arts darker than a black-market coffee bean. Care to spill the giggle water on that?”

She blinked like a burlesque dancer under a spotlight. “I... I’m not sure I understand your vernacular, Miss Hart. Are you implying Cornelius was involved in... the occult?”

“Bingo, doll face. Give the lady a cigar and a one-way ticket to the Copacabana.” I paused, cocking an ear. “Did you hear that?”

A low moan shimmied through the room and steadily grew louder than a foghorn with indigestion. Suddenly, a book flew off the shelf, missing my noggin by a hair’s breadth.

“Duck and cover, sister!” I yelled, shoving the widow behind an overstuffed armchair. I whipped out my Spectral Spook Zapper. “Alright, you ectoplasmic mook, let’s dance!”

The room erupted into more chaos than a Keystone Cops reel. Books flew, curtains flapped, and somewhere, a ghostly voice belted out a tune that’d make Stephen Foster (look it up) roll in his grave. I blasted left and right, my Zapper illuminating the place like the searchlights at Alcatraz during a prison break.

“Take that, you translucent troublemaker!” I hollered, nailing a particularly nasty wraith. It vanished with a pop, a whimper, and a puff of green smoke, leaving behind a stink that reeked like burned toast and regret.

As the dust settled, I turned to the widow, who was peeking out from behind the chair like a groundhog with stage fright. “Your house has more spirits than a speakeasy on Saturday night, Mrs. W. You mind telling me what your husband was up to?”

She flapped her gums faster than a gossip columnist with a spicy scoop. Turns out, Cornelius had been trying to summon some big bad from the great beyond, looking to strike a deal for power and wealth. Classic mistake. You’d think these rich types would learn, but they always want more.

I needed more hot poop, so I cornered the butler in the kitchen. He was stiffer than a starched collar in January, but I could see the sweat beading on his upper lip.

“Alright, Jeeves,” I said, leaning in close. “Time to sing like a canary at the Met. What do you know about the boss’s late-night activities?”

He gulped, his Adam’s apple doing the jitterbug. “I... I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Miss Hart.”

I smiled, all teeth and moxie. “Come off it, buddy. I’ve seen more convincing acts in a high school production of ‘Hamlet’. Spill it, or I’ll have my friend here do some redecorating.” I patted my Zapper meaningfully.

The butler’s resolve crumbled faster than a sandcastle in a tsunami. He babbled about secret meetings, strange chants, and a final ritual that went sideways. Corny had bitten off more than he could chew, and whatever he summoned had bitten back.

Armed with this info, I headed to the basement. If this was a horror movie, the audience would be screaming at me not to go down those stairs. But hey, a dame’s gotta do what a dame’s gotta do.

The basement was darker than a Mickey Finn’s intentions and twice as disorienting. My Ectoplasmic Resonance Detector was going haywire, its needle spinning like a drunken ballerina.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I called, voice echoing in the gloom. “Let’s have a little chat, mano a monster.”

That’s when it appeared. A shape darker than a moonless night, with more tentacles than an octopus family reunion. It roared, a sound that’d make Sinatra lose his voice in envy.

I stumbled back, fumbling for my Zapper. “Well, ain’t you uglier than a bulldog chewing a wasp. Let’s see how you like a taste of Roxie Hart’s special sauce!”

I fired, the Zapper’s beam flooding the underground hideaway with more light than a night raid over Berlin. The creature howled, tentacles flailing. For a moment, I thought I had it on the ropes, but one of those slimy appendages knocked the Zapper from my hand, sending it skittering across the floor. The monster loomed over me, its maw gaping like the entrance to the underworld’s least welcoming honky-tonk.

I gulped, backing up against the wall. “Well, sweet cheeks,” I muttered to myself, “looks like this might be your last curtain call.”

But as the saying goes, it ain’t over ‘til the fat lady sings. And honey, I was about to belt out an aria that’d knock this palooka’s socks off—if it wore any.

As the tentacled terror approached, I knew it was time to pull out my ace in the hole. Or should I say, my ace from the hereafter.

“Alright, you overgrown calamari,” I growled, “you wanna dance? Let’s cut a rug.”

I closed my eyes, concentrating harder than a code breaker at Bletchley Park. Suddenly, the air around me shimmered and sparked like a technicolor light show at Emerald City.

The monster hesitated, its tentacles freezing mid-flail. If it had eyebrows, they’d have been raised higher than a cat’s back at a dog show.

“That’s right, buster,” I said, smirking, my voice echoing with an otherworldly resonance. “You’re not the only spook in this rowdy scene.”

My body glowed hotter than the Chicago steel mills working overtime for the war effort. The creature shrieked, sounding like a thousand nails on a chalkboard orchestra.

“What’s the matter, ugly? Can’t take the heat?” I taunted, floating a few inches off the ground. “Let me introduce myself properly. The name’s Roxie Hart, class of 1945—and I don’t mean high school, sweetheart.”

With a gesture that would’ve made Houdini green with envy, I let fly with a wallop of phantasmal pizazz that made the basement look like Coney Island brought Times Square to a hot date on a Saturday night.

The monster didn’t stand a chance. It dissolved faster than a sugar cube in hot coffee, leaving behind nothing but a stench of low-tide and broken dreams.

As my glow faded away and I floated onto solid ground again, I heard gasps behind me. Turning, I saw the widow, the butler, and the gardener gawking at me like I was Eleanor Roosevelt doing the jitterbug in her studded leather underwear. Now that’s a picture.

“Close your mouths, folks,” I drawled. “You’ll catch flies.”

The widow stepped forward, her eyes wider than dinner plates at the Ritz. “Miss Hart... what... who are you?”

I straightened my fedora, which had somehow stayed on through the whole shebang. “Like I said, doll. I’m Roxie Hart, paranormal investigator extraordinaire. I just happen to have a bit more... personal experience with the other side than most.”

“You mean... you’re a...” the gardener stammered.

“A ghost? Well, butter my biscuit and call me impressed!” I said, winking. “Been haunting this side of the dirt since 1945, when a Jerry and I did the razor fandango in Kraut country, and I missed a step. Figured I’d put my unique secret agent talents to good use, so I started solving cases no living gumshoe could crack.”

The butler, looking paler than usual, which for him was quite a feat, cleared his throat. “But... how are you... solid... and a woman?”

I shrugged, straightening my trench coat. “A dame’s gotta have some secrets, Jeeves. Let’s just say I’ve picked up a few tricks since shuffling off this breathing business. Now, about your late boss...”

I explained how Cornelius had accidentally offed himself during his little summoning ritual. The big bad he’d called up had been more than happy to stick around and make itself at home, feeding off the fear and confusion of the household.

“So, that’s the skinny,” I concluded. “Case closed, and your house is officially de-ghouled. My bill will be in the mail—and don’t worry, I accept most forms of payment in this realm.”

As I turned to leave, the widow called out, “Miss Hart! Will we... see you again?”

I paused at the door, tipping my hat with a smirk. “Sugar, in my line of work, you never know where or when I might pop up. Just keep your eyes peeled and your Ouija boards handy.”

With that, I sauntered into the night, my form slowly fading like mist in the morning sun. Another case solved, another day... well, not lived, but you get the picture.

In this town, the streets are dark, the dames are dangerous, and the dead don’t always stay put. But as long as there are phantoms causing trouble, Roxie Hart, the ghostly dick, will be there to crack the case and save the day.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a hot date with eternity—and maybe a cold glass of spectral gin. This ghost detective’s work is never done, but hey, that’s the breaks when you’re the spook who sleuths.